


Beneath The Mountains Music Woke

by Tehri



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff without Plot, Harp - Freeform, Inspired by Music, M/M, Music, Music as central theme, Thorin-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 10:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11757744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: As a young dwarf, Thorin chose to learn how to play the harp. For years, the music he played was coloured by his own troubled mind.





	Beneath The Mountains Music Woke

He’d been allowed to choose an instrument to learn at an early age, and against his family’s expectations, he chose the harp. It spoke to him, somehow, and what music he’d heard from it before had calmed him when his soul had been troubled. It was perhaps not the instrument dwarves would have expected a prince to wish to learn – if princes wished to learn any. But he was able to draw music from a harp that moved the hearts of those who listened, and that was all he had hoped for when he chose to learn how to play it.

In their exile, the music he played had been mournful. No matter how joyful he felt, no matter what hopes he nurtured in his heart, no merry tunes would sound when his hands rested on the harp. Once he touched it, his fingers drew forth music as old as the mountains themselves – songs of yore, of days that would never return. Perhaps he had never stopped grieving; and perhaps there was an outlet for his grief in the solace his music could give him.

His harp was of gold, and it was as close to his heart as his own kin. But it soon grew rare for his hands to rest upon it rather than upon the hilt of his sword. With his people in exile, he could not afford to spend too much time on introspection – he had a responsibility towards them all. His kin struggled to feed themselves, and with his grandfather dead and his father gone, people turned their eyes to him for leadership. And what else could he do but lead them?

His nephews chose the fiddle as they grew older; his sister and his cousins taught them how to play it, but they often asked him to take his harp and join them. More often than not, he declined. A part of him worried that he could not follow the cheerful tunes they played, that the mood would turn sombre when his fingers trailed over the harp strings.

There was little time for him to spend on such frivolities, all the same; the dwarves were struggling in their new home, and he had to work as hard as any of them. He travelled to the towns of Men to offer his services as a blacksmith. He helped his people reopening the mines and make them relatively safe, though they soon found that there was not much to be found in them – they had been mined dry of valuable ore many years ago, aside from a few veins of iron. Even his sister worked, though he would have preferred to see her as the princess she was; but her skill as a jeweller was invaluable, even in a poor region as theirs where gems were scarce.

Every now and then, his thoughts turned to his harp where it lay, wrapped in a blue cloth in his home. He thought sometimes to take it out and play, to give some substance to what he felt. But whenever he reached his home, exhaustion seized him and he only cast longing glances at the instrument before he laid down and allowed sleep to claim him.

 

Upon meeting the old wizard, he was not certain of what to expect; an incitement to take back his old homeland was not something he would have thought of even in his wildest dreams. No one wise would suggest going up against a dragon, not without an army. He had no one but those who dwelled in the Blue Mountains. No one else would come, and he could not ask it of anyone. How could he, when his kin so often bled for his family’s cause?

But the words had now been planted in his head and would not leave. _Take back your homeland_. But it couldn’t be done, could it? A dragon guarded the mountain where he had grown up. His father and grandfather were missing or dead. He had no army at his disposal. And yet…

_Burglary_ , the wizard had said. The old man had even offered to find a seasoned burglar to help them. The words spun in his head, and soon enough he put out the word in the Blue Mountains that he sought those willing to come with him on his quest. Some called it folly and whispered that the madness that had once claimed his grandfather had now come to haunt the line of kings yet again. But some answered his call; tinkerers, miners, toymakers. Only a few of them tried and seasoned warriors that he knew he could trust. It would have to do. So long as they were able and willing, he could ask no more.

For the first time in many long years, he brought his harp with him. His kin, he knew, would bring instruments that they favoured to lighten the coming long nights on the road. And when the wizard told them that he had indeed found a burglar for them, they answered his call and came to the little land where their fourteenth member was to be found.

The wizard introduced him and his companions to a Halfling, whose behaviour certainly did not remind him of a burglar. The little creature, red-faced and huffing and puffing, seemed to know the wizard – but was woefully unknowing as to why the dwarves were there. It was with great patience that he explained their purpose, finding with each reaction from his host that the Halfling would be utterly unsuited for their venture. In a corner of his mind, he hoped the small thing would decline and refuse to sign the contract.

They sang and played music that evening, and for the first time in many years he found the notes drawn from his harp to be less mournful than before. There was longing – but there was determination also, and courage. And the Halfling listened to them, sat as though enchanted near the fire with a faraway expression on their face. This, he thought was not the face of someone who wished to journey halfway across the world, but rather that of one who loved stories. No, they would be better served if the Halfling did not come.

And yet, when the small thing came running after them near the inn of the Green Dragon the next morning, a part of him was glad – though he could not say why.

 

That was long ago, now. He lost his harp during their journey, and though he mourned its loss a new one has taken its place in the Mountain; of wood, oak, rather than of gold. It was, in a sense, the end of an era. The dragon was gone, its cadaver visible sometimes in clear weather upon the far shores of the Long Lake if one travelled by it; his harp was gone now as well, and with it so many mournful and painful memories of the days when the wretched worm came.

Two years after the dragon’s death, Thorin took a hesitant seat with his harp in his chambers. He’d not attempted to play since that night in the Shire – a small part of him fearing what would be conjured by his hands after what the madness had done to his mind. But something was spinning in his head now, something that he needed to get out. Music was sometimes better than words – and such was absolutely the case this time. He was no wordsmith, not like Bilbo who was able to compose poetry and songs at a whim.

Bilbo. The hobbit. The Halfling who had travelled with him and who was now the very source of Thorin’s problem. During their journey, he’d heard his friend more than once hum or whistle merry little tunes; when he’d had a mind to ask, Bilbo told him that the tunes were as old as the hills of the Shire and had passed from one generation of hobbits to the next. Some had words to them, some did not.

The one he hummed most frequently was one of the latter – it had been written hundreds of years ago, according to the hobbit, by an ancestor of his far back in the Baggins-family. It was meant to commemorate the beauty and the peace of the little land they called home. Thorin had heard it more often as of late, for Bilbo had stayed in Erebor with his friends and had not given up the habit of humming or whistling when he worked somewhere or simply to fill the silence.

He lifted his hands and trailed them over the strings, seeking first in his mind what feeling he wished to convey. His thoughts landed on what Bilbo had told him of life in the Shire, and he had to smile when he thought of it. Little by little, it began to come together; gentle notes sounded in the room, no longer the mournful sound that he’d produced for so long, but bright and merry.

He began slowly as he pieced together it all in his mind. He thought briefly of birdsong on a lazy summer morning, of the sun rising, and the notes he chose reminded him of the rolling green hills they had passed as they left the Shire. He had perhaps not paid enough attention to them during their journey, focused as he’d been on their goal rather than the way there. The corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile as he picked out the notes he’d so often heard Bilbo hum – he thought it fair to place the little tune there, when it was the hobbit’s ancestor who had, in a way, inspired him.

To his mind came the image of people beginning their day; he thought of a village, a lively marketplace filled with people. Not the bustle and noise of the recently rebuilt markets of Erebor, but the chatter and laughter of what he imagined a market in the Shire would be like. His smile grew a little wider at the sound of the bright and carefree notes; something he thought suited the more Tookish side of Bilbo. Merry and mischievous, somehow.

He thought of the beautiful farmlands he’d seen, and wondered distantly what a day working in the fields would be like. Barley, wheat, and rye bright and golden in the summer sunshine; garden beds and fields filled with crops, fruit trees filled with ripe fruits. Seemingly endless meadows of flowers and waist-high grass. Again the notes slowed somewhat, and he saw again the rolling green hills in his mind.

He decided at last to end the tune much as it had begun, with the same slow and gentle tune that had almost become the very soul of the little land in the west. He imagined a sunset as he played, and the people of the Shire settling in for the night – weary of the day’s toil, and yet happy and anticipating the next day.

He’d barely finished playing when a soft laugh made him turn his head towards the doorway.

“I was hoping you’d keep playing,” Bilbo stated. He stood leaning against the doorframe, watching the dwarf with a warm smile. “I’d only ever heard that tune played on a fiddle before. It sounds very nice when played on a harp.”

“I thought so too,” Thorin admitted, stretching as he got to his feet. “Though I hope your ancestor would not be offended that I added to his work.”

“Your addition was beautiful,” the hobbit insisted. “I’m certain he would have loved it.” He grinned suddenly as he stepped into the room. “You play beautifully, you know. Are you sure you won’t play some more?”

“Perhaps another day.” The dwarf smiled back at him and reached out to trail his hand over the harp. The wood felt strangely warm under his palm. “In the meantime, would you teach me more of the music from the Shire? I’m afraid your whistling is all I’ve heard of it.”

“That would depend on what you’d like to hear,” Bilbo answered. “We have a few like what my ancestor wrote, and an incredible amount of livelier ones. And, of course, drinking songs.”

“I’m certain we have enough drinking songs of our own, master Baggins,” Thorin snorted.

“Are you really certain?” There was a mischievous tone to Bilbo’s voice that reminded the dwarf eerily of his nephews when they had a particularly bad idea. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind if I sing the song of the sixth barrel to you.”

“Perhaps some of the livelier tunes you mentioned?” Thorin suggested quickly, hoping to steer the subject elsewhere. “I believe you mentioned a tune during our journey about the Brandywine?”

“Oh, you’re no fun. But very well, that one will do.” Bilbo eyed the harp thoughtfully and tilted his head, as though considering what else might be played. “Actually… What were you thinking of calling the tune you just played? I don’t think my ancestor ever named it.”

“I hadn’t thought of it.” The dwarf frowned and thought of the piece he had played. “But it is essentially something regarding your homeland. Perhaps something along those lines?” He paused and blinked, smiling suddenly when he came to a conclusion. “You thought of writing something about the Shire in your book, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and more than thought about it.” Bilbo raised an eyebrow and smiled back at him. “And you’ve seen the title.”

“’Concerning hobbits’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“So it does. If you think it suits?”

“It suits, if I may borrow it from you.”

**Author's Note:**

> The tune Thorin plays is essentially a harp-version of "Concerning Hobbits".
> 
> The song of the sixth barrel is... Er... That is actually a song by a Swedish artist that I find pretty funny. It's called "Sjätte tunnan" (literally "Sixth barrel") and is a drinking song. Four lords meet to try to put stop to war and other horrors in their country, and eventually are suggested by a bard that they should have a competition - whoever drinks the last pint of the last barrel will be crowned king. Spoiler - they all get past the fifth barrel and fall asleep. Bard drinks the last and wins.
> 
> Initially wrote this as a way of working past writer's block. Then started thinking about how I choose weirdly complicated things to write about for that purpose...


End file.
